Wait for November
by o-seastarved
Summary: Shaken and feeling lost after Allison's death, Lydia turns to Peter to help control her power and soon finds herself slipping into the dangerous and murky waters in the space between life and death.
1. Chapter 1

_._

_._

_throw roses into the abyss  
><em>_and say: _

_here's my thanks  
><em>

_to the monster who didn't succeed  
>in swallowing me alive<em>

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.

This is a creation story.

This is picking flowers and the earth swallowing you whole and pomegranate seeds.

This is beauty wielding the bow and the huntress harnessing her moon before falling prey herself.

This is the fallen brother, hiding in shadows in his underworld, manipulation and narcissus.

But not like you know.

.

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Two weeks. Two weeks since Allison died.

Ever since it'd felt like Lydia's ears were under water. Everything around her was suddenly muffled, far away in some place that wasn't where she was. She pretended she was. She smiled at Malia as she walked by in the hallway and she rolled her eyes at Stiles in class but all the while she traced tiny, erratic swirling circles on her notebook and found herself reading sentences three, four, five times before giving up and answering her homework questions without doing the reading.

Everything muffled. And a slight ringing. Her eyes were glassy and wide and empty more often than she'd like them to be. Her sadness caused a stillness in her that was heavy and weighted. It was how she felt when she shifted her car into drive and set out in the weighty, heavy silence of the night on autopilot, towards an unknown but familiar destination.

And when the heavy door rolled open on its tracks she froze, suddenly buzzing. Suddenly sharp.

"Derek's not here," he said, arm leaning on the edge of the frame.

"That's fine," she said, dumbstruck, unsure how she'd ended up in front of Peter. She floated past him and into the loft, scanning the spare room for something to focus on. "I assume you've heard."

She heard the door heave shut. "Another Argent down. Can't say I'm surprised," he said, a shrug in his voice.

"No?" she said and drew a finger along the Hale's wooden table and left a shiny clean line in the dust. "Most people would be more surprised at your supposed nine lives." Lydia still wouldn't look at him. But took a turn about the room with slow, thick, clunks of her heels. There was so much wood.

"Funny thing about running headlong into battle is…one day you're gonna get hit." She could hear the own slow tap of his shoes working their way clockwise, coming closer to meet her aimless wandering in from of the window panes. "I only fight if I have to."

She turned and spun on her heel and he was closer than she'd thought. Some inches away, awash in the city lights streaming through the glass panes.

"I've noticed," she said pointedly.

Peter held her gaze for a long moment. Too long. She knew those eyes of a younger man who deceived her in her own mind all too well.

She spun away again, running a hand over the back of each dining chair, circling slowly. He fell in tow, but distantly, circling like a cat.

"Do you know what I used to be like?" She asked, but he simply followed cautiously as she turned her first corner of the long table. "Confident. Assured. Man-Eater. I know archaic latin, did you know that?"

She felt his eyes on her so intently that it cut through the melancholy fog she'd been stuck in for weeks. "Just for fun. I was going to win the Field's Medal one day…" she trailed off with her footsteps. She felt drained of marrow from her bones. They were rickety and it was hard to hold herself up.

"And now?" he asked in a low voice.

"Haunted. Crazy. Confused," she breathed in. "Scared…_all _the time." She barely spoke the final words, they caught in her throat and escaped in a vacuum-like whisper.

"You don't have to be," he said and it sounded to her like the most earnest thing she could remember from his lips. "You're extroadinary." His eyes flashed a glowing blue before he hung his head. "The power you possess."

"You used me," she said, stronger now. Not an accusation, but a fact.

"I did."

"And now?" she mimicked. "I don't possess power. It possesses me. I'm still used."

Silence hung in the air like dread. He was looking at her the same way he had when she'd discovered him alive and well in this very loft. His eyes meeting hers, then dropping. Low, sincere, oddly ashamed. Why had she found herself here in the middle of the night anyway? Her self consciousness grew, and she gripped a knob on the chair in front of her as if she could screw it off.

She gulped. "Well," and she did her best to put her best haughty game face on. "You can drive me home. Since it it doesn't seem like you do very much of anything around here anyway. And I don't want to end up at another evil degenerate person's industrial loft dungeon with even deeper V-necks than you."

She turned and began to stalk towards the door.

"There she is," she heard him wisp behind her as his keys jingled and she couldn't help the side of her mouth from turning up.

She tried not to notice his reflection in the passenger's window as he drove her car out of downtown and onto the windy roads of the neighborhoods. Every now and then a passing vehicle would send light streaming through the windshield and she could see his eyes flickering and his jaw clenching and unclenching slightly.

She was so tired that her eyes drifted closed and only opened when she heard the click of the doors being unlocked and felt the stillness seep out of the shut off engine. Lydia peeled herself out of the car without a word and before she could just shut the door and stagger to her bed he strained his neck forward from the driver's seat to grab her gaze.

"Remember sweetheart, I created you," he said and she looked away.

_No_, she thought. _You opened up the earth on the football field and you tethered me to the dead. _

"Lydia-"

but she was gone.

.

.

That night she fell into a deep sleep. One she wouldn't remember, for she slept through the night and school the next day and in to the evening.

But somewhere deep down in the pit of her dreams she realized she wasn't alone. It seemed a presence followed her everywhere but didn't take shape.

She was walking on a sleek black floor, a dark black cube with no walls or ends or lines. But the surface beneath her bare feet was so cold it seared through her legs and up to her arms so she crossed them and shivered.

"Allison?" she called.

But there was nothing. Just nothing. But the black.

And then a field of daisies. Gold and yellow and orange and swaying in a warm spring breeze. And her hair was in its braid crown and she picked them one by one to deposit them in a woven basket at her arm. She found a particularly beautiful one. So bright and vibrant it looked like the sun. Allison would love it, she thought and dipped her hand below the grass to grip it by the root. But when she tugged the flower didn't come with her. The earth shook and soft dirt began to sift through cracks below her feet, revealing the roots of the flower beneath the earth, which were ugly and withered and gray. They snaked around her ankles and took hold, pulling her down and down and down and down.

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><p><em>So yeah. This is essentially: badass-takes-no-prisoners-blood-thirsty-ruthless-ascension-to-power Lydia.<em>

_Note: This is Lydia centric with heavy Peter/Lydia and shades of Allison and Isaac/Allison will feature too. Other characters and combos could pop up though because this might take me into unknown territory. Hopefully a person reads this idk._

_Also: The title comes from the awesome poem "Persephone Lied"_


	2. Chapter 2

She almost welcomed the water in her ears when she walked down the hallways at school. If everything was distant and jumbled and skewed she wouldn't have to hear the incessant chatter about the cheerleading team or the physics test or Allison's death or how Lydia had gone certifiably _A Beautiful Mind_ on everyone.

She just had to get from class to class and try to focus without writing any unknown secret codes in her notebook. Head down, quick feet, books clutched to chest. Go.

"Hey." She stopped short of her plan when Stiles left his place by Malia's locker and ran, limbs flying, towards her. He fell in step and they kept walking towards Physics.

"Hi," she said nicely.

"So?" he said and let it dangle.

"So…What?" she asked.

"Um, the Google Doc? Hello?"

Lydia sighed. She and Stiles had a shared Google Doc where she wrote down in diary form everywhere she ended up that she couldn't explain. The last thing she remembered, where she went, what she found, her feelings etc. It was to try and find some sort of pattern or Gestalt in the whole mess and Lydia didn't have the energy to tell Stiles how futile it seemed to her. When she'd been so sure, she had been wrong. When she had no idea what was going on, she had found things. There was no pattern. It was entropic, but Stiles liked unsolvable webs.

"Please tell me you found Peter Hale dead? Maybe like caused by an accident of his own? Accidental suffocation by way of too tight V-neck or…or! His brand of hair gel was discontinued and he couldn't bear a world without it so he…you know," Stiles made a gross gurgling sound and mimed hanging himself in a noose.

"Sadly, Peter is very much still alive," Lydia said matter-of-factly.

"Okaaay," Stiles drew out the word and let it dangle. She still didn't bite. "So what happened why did you end up there?"

"I don't know."

He scratched his head. "This complicates things."

"Don't I know it," she rolled her eyes and darted into her classroom as the bell rang before halting abruptly and running right into the star soccer player's back. Crap.

.

.

"Peter has my car," Lydia sighed and scuffed the bottom of her bootie along the floor.

"Why does Peter have your car?" Derek said, arms crossed, flat.

"Is he here?" she said impatiently.

"Contrary to popular belief, Peter does not actually live here," Derek said.

"So I'm told, but I've seen no evidence that leads me to believe otherwise. So get him or tell me where to find him. He's always here. He has nowhere else to be."

"I resent that." She heard Peter's voice from far back in the loft. She raised an eyebrow at Derek, who scowled.

"Want to come in?" Derek asked with little pleasantry in his voice.

Lydia looked at him wide eyed. "No...Thanks. I'll wait here…_Keys please,_" she called out to Peter.

She tapped her foot, heard movement and rustling and the clang of keys against one another, and soon he wasn't just at the door, but stepping into the hallway.

"It's parked far away. Bad neighborhood. Follow me," he said casually and made his way to the steps.

Lydia didn't budge, but shot a desperate look at Derek, who shrugged and so obviously didn't get her message. "It's true."

"Oh come on, don't be a brat," Peter said. "I'm trying to do something decent here and escort a lady to her car?"

Lydia wanted to vomit. Cursing Derek's complete lack of social cues whatsoever, she puffed up her chest and pursed her lips, preparing to follow the leader down the rickety iron meshed steps.

"Just so you know I make it a distinct point not to be alone with you. Ever. So don't get used to this," she said.

"And yet here we are again, twice in one week," he cooed, taking the steps as leisurely as he pleased.

"I'm not responsible for where my psycho psychic premonitions take me."

Peter stopped abruptly and turned, so that she halted just on the step above him. They were equal height and his cold, chiseled and symmetrical face stared at her point blank. Her breath hitched.

"Oh, but you are," he whispered and his breath reached her cheek, warm and damp.

Lydia's heart was thumping loud and heavy against her chest and she knew he could hear it. She tried to regulate her breath, so it came out soundless and even though it didn't want to.

"Now," he said in a low, serious voice. She could have sworn he leaned in even closer. "You can continue to refuse to take responsibility for your abilities like any other narcissistic teenage girl or you can start to own it."

Her insides were screaming. Every nerve ending wanted to jerk her backward, wanted to take her feet running back up to Derek. When she didn't they screamed louder and her head felt light and dizzy.

"You know…" she started slow and steady, sucking in her cheeks just slightly and puckering her lips like she'd just spit out something sour. "For someone who doesn't care a whole lot for narcissistic teenage girls, you sure seem invested."

For a moment Peter said nothing, but kept his jaw square and menacing and his icy eyes on hers. "Maybe," he began before his mouth ticked up into a lopsided smirk. "When precious cargo is in question."

"Ugh," Lydia groaned and rolled her eyes so far so she couldn't see him for a brief, lovely second. "Spare me." And she huffed passed him to get the show on the road, namely her car on the road and away from industrial downtown lofts and the smell of wet cement and garbage.

"Aren't you going to ask what we both know you want to ask?" he said as he followed her brisk, clapping heels out of the building and into a back alley.

"I don't know what you mean," she said absentmindedly. "Left or right?"

"Left." She began walking. "Yes you do. 5.0 in all of her AP classes? Lydia definitely knows what I mean." She sensed exasperation in his voice which amused her. She added an extra swish to her hips as she walked. Leather dress shoes scuffed along the cement behind her. Scurrying, like on a leash, she thought.

"Sorry to break it to you, darling, but I don't see anyone else knowing how to help you get into Stilinski's brain," he said, more slyly and arrogant than she'd expected, and her forehead creased slightly. "I'm the _only _one that knows what you're capable of. I know what's in there. You want power? Want to harness it? Hmm?"

Lydia's stride broke as his words sunk in. Did she want all of those things? Yes. Did she want them at the tutelage of Peter Hale? No. But she knew she could call him when there was nothing else left with which to save Stiles. She had just known. It was true, Peter understood what she could do more than she did.

"Don't you want to know what you can do? Aren't you curious?" he pried, like a pest buzzing behind her ear.

"Not particularly," she clipped.

"Don't you want to see Allison?" he said finally and she stopped cold.

.

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><p><em>thanks all for the warm reception to the first chapter! not sure I've moved this slowly with plotcharacter before. I'm enjoying writing the slow burn, but lots of stuff is in play so hope you stick with it. reviewing or following will be a huge kick in the butt for my motivation. xoxo._


	3. Chapter 3

She was in a cave made from damp black walls slick with the beginnings of moss. From unseen caverns a drop of water would drip and echo towards her, vast and ominous. Her hands struggled to grip the sides of the rocks, knees scraped when the path would narrow or a non-eroded jagged edge would jut out. Her fingers were stiff and cold, so cold they were going numb and she couldn't bend them. Then a shiver. And a shriek. A shriek so cold and raw, and it bounced and ricocheted against the small spaces and the wet walls. _Allison_ she heard, shrill and cracked, and only after its reverberation twenty times over did she realize it was her own voice.

And then she felt it. Like she had felt a hundred times before. The blade. Like new every time. The saying is it cuts through flesh like butter, but it wasn't true. Lydia felt every tear of flesh and muscle as it went through. She felt it pop and puncture and slice. It was the same every time, just like the night Allison died. She felt everything Allison felt when the Oni's blade tore through her. But sometimes, bitterly, Lydia thought Allison was the lucky one. Because God willing she only felt it the one time. Lydia had to relive it in her dreams day after day, night after night. And when she woke, she was always hoarse from the screaming even though her mother never heard. And her clothes were drenched in a cold sweat.

.

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Disheveled and unnerved from a troubled sleep, Lydia stumbled into school with her hair piled on top of her head in a big mess. She was pretty sure she had worn her tiny flower patterned dress earlier in the week, but attempted to cover it up with a denim jacket from the eighth grade that she fit in again. And flats. Her dreaded flats. But she was so tired and her feet were swollen and sore, yet she didn't know why.

She was late. Way late. Like twenty minutes into second period late. She rushed through the peacefully empty hallways to her locker, and hoped she wouldn't be subject to too many eyeballs on her when she entered art class.

"You look like hell."

Her stupid flats skidded on the tile and made a horrible squeaking sound as she stopped and turned.

"You really know how to charm a lady, Isaac," she said with a tight smile.

He was leaning against a locker, hair mussed and shadows cast from his cheekbones. His t-shirt was wrinkled and jeans streaked with dust. He pushed off from the locker with his shoulder. "I'm still catching up."

She nodded, smile still wound tightly on her face. "Okay then…" she started and nearly gave an awkward thumbs up before twirling on her heel and hooking her thumbs around the straps of her backpack. (She couldn't find her messenger bag).

"Wait-" Isaac called after her and she resigned to looking at his sunken cheeks with a sigh. "I know a place outside of town that opens at 10 and doesn't card. You look like you could use a drink."

The blue and purple circles under her eyes weren't really in a position to argue. "You're not wrong," she said.

.

.

The bar was a shabby inland shack serving the blue collars and truckers off the interstate. It was decorated with a thick layer of dust and pliable plastic chairs that bent when you sat in them. But they didn't card.

"Gin martini. Extra dirty," Lydia said to the bartender and added a "Please" when he stared at her blankly.

"What do we look like the Four Seasons?" the gruff old man behind the bar bit back. She rolled her eyes and was about to begin barking orders when Isaac stepped in.

"Tequila shots. Extra lime. And keep 'em coming, okay?" He slapped a twenty on the bar, which was etched with signatures from pens and pocket knives. Isaac grabbed Lydia by the elbow. "Come on," and led her towards a quiet corner table.

Lydia shuddered through her first two shots before they got easier to down. Soon the bored waitress just brought the whole bottle to the table and left them in peace.

"So is this what you do now?" she set the bottom-weighted shot glass down with a clunk on the table. Number three.

"What do you-What do you mean?" Isaac asked, eyes stinging from the liquor.

"Well you're not _around_. Ever. You're just-"

"Yeah."

"What?" she asked.

"Yeah," his voiced dropped. "What am I supposed to do? Move on? Like everybody else."

His shoulders were slumped and his tall frame shrunk as much as it could. Elbows on the sticky plastic tablecloth and now his eyes weren't just stinging from tequila.

Lydia ran her finger around the rim of her empty glass, looking at his shoulder, not his face.

"I haven't," she whispered.

"I feel her sometimes," he blurted out.

Her eyes widened and she snapped up. "You what?"

Isaac looked down for a long moment, completely still. When he looked up, irises blazing, she felt herself jump and hoped he didn't notice.

"It's like a long rope. And sometimes…sometimes when I'm slipping up, or I'm falling down, there's a tug. It's so soft. But it's there and I know it's her…" Isaac's voice had grown husky and cracked. He sniffed and wiped his face with his sleeve. "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Ever feel her?" Isaac's eyes were searching, making small movements that tracked back and forth along her face. He felt alone. She knew that feeling. But they weren't alone in the same place.

Lydia didn't think she could speak. If she did all she could imagine coming out was a strangled, half-sob. No, she wanted to tell him. No I only feel her dying. Over and over and over again. In my dreams. And then she's gone, always, upon waking.

But she didn't say any of it. She couldn't.

Isaac poured them each another shot, ones that were so full they sloshed over the edge and dripped down their fingers.

.

.

"Of course I can drive don't be ridiculous," Lydia exclaimed on the way to her car some hours later. The light of day burned their eyes.

Isaac held up his hand. "Look, fine by me, but I'm just saying…alcohol doesn't affect me so…"

"Not for lack of trying," she called saccharinely as she opened the driver's side door. "Come on. I know a short cut."

Though Lydia didn't know a short cut. In fact, she had no idea where she was. But she'd forgotten all of that because a very clear, very sure, and very determined calm had settled over her so that she didn't even feel drunk anymore. As she drove it was like the car was steering her, but she didn't feel out of control, just purposeful, like the current of a river rushing in the direction it was meant to follow.

But when she pulled the car into the lot of a long abandoned 1950s style diner and shifted into park, Isaac tensed beside her.

"Lydia," he said tentatively.

"I'll just be a minute, going to see if there's a bathroom," she said simply as she hopped out.

Isaac followed suit, shadowing two steps behind her determined yet easy stride. "Lydia, I don't think...I mean why would there be a working bath-" his voice fell off when the door creaked open and they were met with a stale, rotten smell and a dust that took the streaming sunlight from the windows and diffused it into a gauzy haze.

As she turned the sharp corner from the hostess stand to the singular hallway that divided the read leather booths from the old fashioned ice-cream bar she stiffened, all calm lost. "Oh no," she croaked and gasped in air and tried to hold it but couldn't. She let out a shrill scream that ripped at her throat and hurt her cheeks but she couldn't stop it. Her knees buckled under her but before she hit the tile Isaac's arms hooked under her armpits and held her up.

Shaking, nearly convulsing, and suddenly cold, Lydia took in every detail before her. Bodies, maimed and bloody, propped up around the room like a display. Children, families, teenagers by the jukebox, an elderly man at the bar. Even a server. All dead and strung up with wire like puppets. Some were missing limbs, parts of their faces or heads. Some were stiff and bloated and blue. Most were crusted with dark black blood. One little girl's hair was burnt off of her head, her eyes wide and face half melted off, and reminded Lydia of a little doll that a sadistic little boy would torment and torture.

When Isaac carried her outside she held on with tiny iron fists to his jacket and leaned into him with all of her weight. The sobs finally came, and they wracked through her so violently that she couldn't stand. "Please," she strangled out. "Please make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop please," she repeated over and over until she couldn't speak anymore.

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><p><em>Hi hello hey, hope you guys liked this chapter and the IsaacLydia dynamic. Ish got dark. Let me know what your thoughts and feelings are! xoxo Air _


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